


Faith and Trust

by zenelly



Series: JohnDave Week 2016 [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: JohnDave Week, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/pseuds/zenelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For JohnDave Week 2016 - Day 6 - NSFW</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith and Trust

“I think,” John says, looking down at you with a fond gentleness, spread out and loose and warm, “that it’s time you get what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You don’t quite sob, but it’s a near thing.

John smiles at you, catches your hands as you reach up towards him, and he kisses your fingers gently before placing your hands, folded, on your chest with a particularly pointed press that says “Stay here.”

You do. You don’t unfold your hands. You don’t reach for him again. You let him stroke a hand down the side of your face, and if your breath is coming a bit hard? If your legs are shaking because of the tease of his thigh between yours, pressing with just the right amount of pressure to give you nothing but a faint brush of sensation?

It’s just what John wants you to have.

“What a good boy,” you hear him whisper, and you turn your head into his hand, nosing against the sensitive, soft skin of his inner wrist and palm because you _are_. You try to be so, so good, you just want someone to notice, to know and love you, and here he is, with a calming pet down your flank and a hand wrapped just the right side of tight in your hair. “How in the world anyone can think you aren’t good is a mystery to me.”

So many people.

So many people think you aren’t good, but you _are_. 

“You do everything I tell you do just right, don’t you, Dave?” John asks, and you nod, even though it pulls against the hand in your hair. The sweet bite of pain makes it even better. Even better as he wraps long, clever, wonderful fingers around your leaking erection for a single, wonderful stroke, as he bends his head to kiss your folded hands. “You’re such a good boy. So obedient. So caring. So I’m going to let you pick. What do you want, Dave?”

You breathe in.

It shakes on the way out, catching as a sob when John’s wrist twists a bit and his hand curls around your cock again.

“You, John. I just. I want you. Please, just,” you gasp, biting your lip when no more words come, the curve of your mouth already sore from you gnawing on it.

John leans down and kisses you, coaxes your mouth open as he does, gentling your bite so you can kiss him back, eager. Your legs strain, heels pressed flat against the bed where John put them earlier, and you rut in short jerks, trying to get anything, anything at all from John’s leg or hand. You just _want him_. 

“Okay, Dave,” he says when he finally pulls away. “Okay, I can do that. You’re so good, you deserve whatever it is you want.”

You almost, almost shake your head to deny that.

(You don’t believe you deserve anything, but in these moments, it’s easier to allow John than it is to believe yourself. After all, John wouldn’t lie to you, but yourself, on the other hand. You can’t be trusted.)

“Hands wherever you want them, Dave,” John orders, scooting down your body, and you whine at the sudden loss of his hand, his thigh, his weight over yours, grounding down your static skin. But that’s soon replaced as he kisses, warm and wet, around your hips, the sensitive crease of your thigh, as he spreads your legs from their instinctual tightening.

As he slides his fingers inside of you and his mouth down your cock.

You almost come right then, but you want to be good. You want to enjoy this and let John spoil you, and he does. God, he does, with the suction of his mouth and the curl-press of his fingers as he takes you apart, moment by shivering moment. He holds you in place, even when you buck towards him, one arm just. Pressing you back down without even breaking his stride.

Your hands are in his hair, against his jaw, feeling him as he goes down on you, and it shouldn’t be a surprise when he pulls back for just a second, removes his fingers and coaxes yours inside yourself instead.

“Come on, Dave, I want to see it. I want to see you fuck your own fingers, come on,” he murmurs, sucking dark bruises into your inner thighs.

You heave in a stuttering breath, but you do as you’re told. You press your fingers against the slick ring of muscle, loose already from what feels like hours of play, from John’s mouth and fingers, and John watches avidly as you go for two immediately, stroking your trembling legs.

“Good boy.” John breaths in shakily. “Good boy, Dave.”

You groan, because he’s bent over again, mouthed lower, and lower still, until it’s your fingers, but _John’s mouth_ , opening you up as he slowly strokes your cock, as the grip on your hips encourages you to roll your hips down, tentatively at first and then faster when John urges you further. You undulate into the stroking of his tongue and your fingers and white-bright tension lines you from your toes to your shoulders, from your abdomen that is sticky and slick with sweat and precome to your throat until finally, finally, it’s enough.

John pulls his mouth away, which would be awful is he didn’t immediately replace it with the gentle pressure of his fingers as he watches you come, shaking, crying. If he didn’t rest his forehead against yours and whisper what a good boy you were. If he didn’t nuzzle you while you shake down from the bright heights of orgasm and gentle his hands and yours and hold you until your mind quiets. 

If he didn’t tell you how much he loves you and how wonderful you are.

And if you didn’t absolutely, one hundred percent, believe him.


End file.
